Clara would need therapy. It was the only thing they could agree on; it was the only thing they could smile about because they knew with time and a little help, she would slowly come around. Her mind was questionable, everyone told them, but her body would heal. Every bit of it would heal and when it did, she would be strong enough to know the whole truth. A whole truth the Doctor understood would break her heart.
She'd just decided on a name, a name she was going to tell him when she returned to the Tardis and he'd been so excited to find out. To know what they'd call their baby girl; what name he'd get to enter into the Tardis mainframe to ensure it was peppered throughout her nursery. The Doctor had just begun working on it, giving it pastel purple and teal walls, pale curtains with butterflies around fake windows through which he'd project different landscapes because he wanted his daughter to see the universe. He wanted her to dream of far off places before she could name them and he wanted her to know of the wonders of the life.
Of the life she should have had.
He stepped into the hospital room with a bouquet of roses and watched her offer him the quick passing of a smile across her lips as she picked at the bandages on her right arm before telling him, "My father's gone down to the cafeteria to eat lunch on my insistence."
He was pleased to see the vacant stare he'd left her with the night before had been filled with a sort of hesitant curiosity, but he could see the dark circles underneath her eyes – knew she hadn't slept. She'd told him before, how her mother's death had affected her. Clara had nightmares for months and she'd wake, reaching out for a worn book on her shelf to replay memories in her mind to soothe it. He imagined she was in for the same fate now, except this time she was restrained to the bed by a leg anchored together just below her knee in an orchestra of metal and gauze a nurse had to examine every few hours.
"That's good," he told her anxiously.
She tilted her head to lament, "You don't get along very well, do you."
The Doctor supposed before the accident they had gotten along alright; they'd just avoided one another – or, rather, he'd avoided Dave. He understood that to this other man, the Doctor had stolen his daughter, taken her off to the stars and made it impossible for her to look at normality the same ever again. Now he was the man who handed her the keys to a machine she should have stopped riding as soon as she'd found out she was pregnant; a machine he should have refused to let her take as soon as he could see the bump of her belly stretching the fabric of her dresses outward.
Gesturing at himself as he moved closer, he asked, "Me and your father?"
"No," she laughed, "Of course you and my father." She shrugged and grinned, "So you and my dad don't get along; you were here when I woke; and you're bringing me flowers to cheer me up. What are we, you and I?"
The Doctor moved to her bedside and plucked a set of half-dead red roses out to deposit them in the trash bin while replacing them with the new set and he grinned at her, watching her grin back. There was a devious look in her eyes, one he'd gotten used to and normally he would kiss her and ask her what was on her mind, but he knew that was a delicate gesture during a delicate time, so he took a step back.
"Are we married?" Clara asked boldly, then he watched her uninjured hand come up to cover her mouth as she giggled and he realized – fifteen year old Clara would find the thought of marriage amusing. But the chuckles slowed as she watched him stand there solemnly and she nodded. "We're married."
The words were almost sad and he exhaled his sorrow before lifting his left hand to display the ring on his finger before glancing to the bedside table and pulling open a drawer, rummaging through a few of her belongings – her clutch, the keys to her homes (her flat and the Tardis), the worn copy of Much Ado About Nothing that had been tucked into the leather jacket she wore, and finally, in a small plastic bag, amongst a golden necklace, a matching bracelet, and two other rings, sat her wedding ring.
The Doctor plucked the bag up, separating out the one ring against the plastic and he showed it to her with a small smile, tilting his head and telling her playfully, "I'm terribly sorry to inform you, Clara, but you're married to me."
"Dad says I'm thirty," she wrinkled her nose, "So, I suppose this is the lesser offense."
"Oi," he scoffed, watching her smile widen before he handed her the bag to examine the contents. "We've been married two years, well…" he trailed, then chose not to mention the additional time they'd spent travelling together while time on Earth continued on its normal pace. In reality it'd been almost three years, and she was almost thirty one.
Clara let the ring slide into her palm and she eyed it, frowning at the circles and dots etched into it before glancing up at him to ask, "Does this mean something?" Then she added, "To us, does it mean something?"
He sighed, shifting to sit beside her to watch her slip the ring to her knuckle before it stopped. "Your hand is swollen," he gestured at the scratches and bruises. He could still remember how warm her hands had been when he first put that ring on her and the way she'd cried – joy he'd never seen that made his hearts swell proudly hoping she could see in his eyes that he felt the same. "And yes. To us it means something – it will again one day."
Her eyes came up to his and he imagined he should have found some joke in them, the notions of a teen-aged girl thinking about her future husband, but there was a hopeful smile there. One he recognized, and for a moment he thought maybe she was remembering him, but she dropped the ring back into the bag and handed it to him with an almost imperceptible nod and his optimism deflated as she went back to picking at her bandages and staring at her fingers.
"So I married you," she finally sighed. Then she slowly added, "A gangly floppy haired idiot. You're not exactly my type."
The Doctor glanced up in time to catch her giggle and he relaxed, telling her, "Well, I always imagined I'd marry taller." He wanted to reach out and tap her head, but he clenched his hands instead, watching her feign insult before smiling in appreciation.
"I'll have you know, my height is an advantage," she teased with a small bop of her head.
"Is it?" The Doctor prompted, straightening.
She only smiled.
He sighed as he watched her. Her cheeks had gone red, a stark contrast to the colorless skin around them. There were a set of rough scratches at her chin and he could see the edge of the already healing cut over her right eye peeking out from just underneath the bandages. She would have a scar there, where the helmet had taken the majority of her final collision with a concrete barrier and had broken in half. He looked into her dark eyes as they stared back at him and he imagined she was studying him the way he studied her except where he knew the length of her dimple and the placement of a mole and the way the edges of her eyes wrinkled when she smiled completely, Clara's memory had been wiped of him.
Her eyes roamed over his forehead and smirked at his brow before finding his lips, lips he involuntarily licked, longing to cover her precious face in kisses and knowing he would only frighten her. The Doctor knew she could see his love for her in the way he gazed with a sigh and after a moment she looked away and he turned his head, murmuring with a wave of his hand, "I'm sorry."
"No," she said quickly with a nervous grin, "I'm sorry – you know me more than I know you right now." Her laugh was shy and it tapered as she allowed, "I've just never had someone look at me like that before."
You did, he thought to himself, every day you did.
Reaching out, he waited until she offered her hand and his thumb moved over her scraped knuckles, avoiding the IV insertion point, and he kissed her fingers before laying them gently on her thigh. "You're right – I know you more than you know me right now and for a while, that might be best."
Clara frowned, watching him as he exhaled and she asked, "Wouldn't it be better if I knew more? I could ask you questions, I mean – like how did we meet? Where do we live? Are we…" she trailed and then finished, "Happy?"
The Doctor smiled, hearing the door creek open behind him and he knew Dave was standing there and he carefully considered his words, knowing there was little he could say at that point. She'd think him mad if he explained he met her after she'd died twice – once in the future and once in the past – and she'd definitely think him insane if he explained that they spread their time between her home on Earth and his Tardis across time and space. Watching the look of wonder that was now dancing in her eyes, an excitement at knowing she had a husband she yearned to learn about, the Doctor offered a wide smile and a laugh and then he narrowed his eyes at her.
"We were magnificent," he allowed, "We were an adventure that's ongoing and this, Clara, this is the next part of that adventure."
Pointing, Clara replied coyly, "You're avoiding my questions."
He smirked and stood and gave Dave a small nod of acknowledgement before turning back to Clara to raise a finger while lowering his brow to tease, "That's part of the adventure."
"I think I like you, Doctor," Clara allowed.
He watched the smile that glowed on her face and for a moment he forgot the man standing next to him as he continued to gaze upon her, seeing the way she continued to fiddle nervously with her hands in her lap while refusing to look away – some sort of staring game. He used to imagine she could read his mind when she held his eyes; she could reach into his thoughts and she could understand everything he couldn't, or wouldn't, say. Now he took a step towards her and he bowed his head slightly, listening to her light laugh knowing she'd won and when he raised his eyes again, looking up from under a flop of thick hair, he watched her wide smile dim to a knowing smirk.
"What am I thinking, Clara?" He began with a nod, "Right now, this instance."
He listened as Dave exhaled behind him and he knew why – there was a look in her eyes, despite the bandage on her head and her arm, and the pins in her leg they both knew had to be painful. It was a look the Doctor had seen a million times, but Dave hadn't. At least he hadn't seen it in his daughter's eyes; he'd seen it in his wife's, when she'd looked at him.
Clara tilted her head just as the Doctor came to a stop next to her bed, hands planting themselves on the metal railing just beside her shoulder to lean his chin into as he watched her look him over, resisting the temptation to bop her nose and kiss her forehead. Any other day and he would have, and any other day she might reach up to tug at his bow tie, or…
Lifting her bandaged arm with nary a flinch, she ran her stiff fingers through the hair over his eye, brushing it away and smiling when it fell back and Clara whispered, "You're thinking you may just like me too."